


The City Has Sex

by retts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is a Saint, M/M, Romance, Rooftop chases as dates, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:24:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of events: an argument, a chase, an idea of an experiment, and finally a kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The City Has Sex

**Author's Note:**

> There really isn't sex. Title is taken from a song by Bright Eyes with the same title.

On a Monday:

"John, did you move my bacterial culture and/or add anything to it whilst I was away?"

"No, why?"

Sherlock steeples his fingers together and stares. "It has grown."

John pokes his head into the kitchen. "Grown what -- _Jesus Christ_ Sherlock, what have you -- no, goddamn it -- "

"Hm, how interesting," murmurs Sherlock as John curses up a storm trying to phone NACSC.

 

 

On another Monday:

"Sherlock, have you been at my jumpers again?"

As it is, Sherlock is downstairs, engaged in a very consuming staring contest with the wallpaper. Clearly, he hasn't been at John's jumpers. Dull. Dull. Dull dull dull --

John's voice sounds again. Dull bland tone -- "SHERLOCK! Why the bloody hell are my jumpers _pink?_ " -- oh, more than a bit of pique, then. Angry footsteps on the staircase. John will burst into the sitting room in five seconds.

Three seconds later (damn), "Bloody hell, Sherlock, what have my jumpers ever done to you?"

Sherlock honestly can't remember. He just says, "I've never done laundry before. It seemed interesting at the time."

The angry flush starts on John's nose and spreads to the rest of his face. He waves the pink jumper -- which used to be the striped brown-and-black one that Sherlock has a love-hate relationship with -- like a declaration for battle. "I've told you before that my jumpers are not for experimentation. We've talked about this! Food, clothes, animals, flammable materials, and bio-hazard chemicals are strictly off-limits!"

"Well, what on earth will I use for my experiments, then?" Sherlock demands, eyes narrowing as irritation pushes through the fog of discontent brought on by the lack of interesting murders (why have the serial killers of London forsaken him?).

"I don't even know why I put up with you!" John yells.

Sherlock sits up and all his considerable mental faculties zero in on one John Watson: ex-soldier, current flatmate, possible friend, enabler of bad habits, _bloke looking to pull tonight_. Oh oh oh _oh_.

John, clearly unnerved by Sherlock's sudden interest, shakes his head like a disgruntled puppy, sighs the longest sigh ever sighed, and storms back up to his bedroom.

For the next two hours, Sherlock doesn't move. Then, a flurry of action.

 

 

Because this is imperative:

"How do you not know that the earth revolves around the sun? It's basic knowledge, Sherlock!"

"And so is the fact that men who are killed by hanging achieve what is called a death erection due to the pressure on the cerebellum created by the noose. What's the difference?"

John looks gobsmacked. "The difference is that your fact is not common knowledge!"

Sherlock sniffs. "Of course it is and do go on, John, I can practically hear the exclamation point after every sentence."

The shorter man ignores the barb but not his idiotic topic. How wrongfully stubborn. "That's only relevant to you, people who love the macabre, and crime specialists." John evaluates his statement. "As I said, only relevant to you."

"I rest my case."

 

 

In the middle of John Watson's date, a text:

Come at once.  
In pursuit of suspect.  
SH

 

Later:

Still in earnest pursuit.  
More enjoyment than  
blond with fake silicon.  
SH

 

 _...no, Sherlock, just no._

 

Not interested in no.  
COME NOW.  
SH

 

Must warn you  
Suspect has gun.  
SH

 

 _DAMN IT  
DO NOT GET SHOT  
UNTIL I GET THERE_

 _I MEAN DON'T GET  
SHOT AT ALL!_

 

 

Sherlock lets the bloodthirsty smile fully blossom on his lips because he sees John is also lost to it. They are in pursuit, in earnest pursuit, of a man who must be part-monkey by the way he jumps over rooftops and climbs fire escape ladders ( _merely a former member of a circus group that has disbanded ages ago, obvious from the state of his elbows, but part-monkey! wouldn't that be fascinating?_ )

But back to John, who is keeping up with Sherlock with little effort, eyes glittering, anger lost in this reckless joy they both share, no matter how improbable.

They don't have a death wish. Sherlock feels too alive for that.

 

 

Yes, even later in the night that it is technically morning:

"Tea," moans John as he sinks into his armchair with the curious grace of butter melting. Sherlock admires it for a moment. He can only flop on to surfaces. John's way has a certain understated flair to it. He might even be a bit jealous.

(And hungry? Is Sherlock hungry? Slightly peckish, perhaps.)

Feeling strangely generous, Sherlock heads to the kitchen and prepares the all-important tea. In the few minutes it takes to boil the water, Sherlock grows bored and ends up giving John an empty cup.

John's face undergoes a series of twitches that Sherlock amuses himself with -- surprise, annoyance, amusement, then surprise once more. In the back of his mind, Sherlock is devising an experiment to explore the elasticity of John's facial muscles which enables him to make such expressions. It will be a two, no, three-week study and will require a considerable number of materials, e.g., a football, a kitten, a thousand-year-old egg --

His attention is diverted when he feels the blunt pressure of a warm mug in his hands. Sherlock opens his eyes and peers curiously at the tea.

"There you go," says John, rather unnecessarily, and he sits back on his armchair (same butter-melting consistency) with a satisfied sigh. The sigh turns into a moan as he drinks his cuppa. The sound triggers the birth of a supernova idea and Sherlock sits up straighter, startled, and he automatically takes a sip of his tea.

It scalds his tongue, tenderness to the point of numbness, and he rubs it against the back of his teeth.

"Sherlock?"

"Thank you," he says without thinking, and how strange, because he means it. In the face of John's delightful expression, Sherlock takes another sip.

 

 

Finally, on a quiet (but not dull) Thursday:

"John."

The rustling of plastic bags cease. John looks up, concerned. "Another experiment gone awry? Should I call NACSC?"

Sherlock gets up from the couch, dressing robe doing a passable imitation of his flapping coat, and in three strides is standing in front of John. John, who has to tilt his head back to look at him.

"I made tea," says Sherlock in all seriousness.

The corners of John's lips twitch. "Did you really?"

"Yes, after you left for Tesco's. It has grown cold by now." I hate stating the obvious. John will understand.

"Indubitably," John replies in a deadpan voice.

Sherlock kisses him, tasting one of his favourite words on the soft bottom lip, and he can feel the sharp intake of breath, the growing smile, the plastic bags rustling by his leg as John drops them.


End file.
